


the aspect of belonging

by Anonymous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 10, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angsty Schmoop, Established Castiel/Sam Winchester, Guilty Dean Winchester, Jealousy, M/M, POV Alternating, Polyamory, Post-Mark of Cain (Supernatural), first time in a long time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-13 21:20:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20589272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: There are no excuses for him to keep thinking about what they used to have. Still, despite his efforts, he keeps clinging to it.





	the aspect of belonging

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!! I've been writing this for who knows how long, and I'm honestly so relieved to finally post it. It's not perfect by any means, but I can't keep tweaking it forever, yknow? And I think I really like my writing in this, which is cool.   
So. I have mixed feelings about Sam/Dean and I don't think that's gonna change which is fine, but this fic really brought me back to when I started to get interested in them and their dynamic and well, having said that, disclaimer: I probably gloss over a lot of things, not just in this fic but, like, in general, just so the pairing works for me personally. For instance, this fic only works bc Dean's cruelty is assigned as a side effect of the Mark, which is canon-adjacent at best, if I remember correctly (I'll be honest, I have TERRIBLE memory and that's partially because killing canon point-blank is always What I'm About).    
Now having said /that/, they really are one true pairing huh. No chill whatsoever. It's hard not to obssess over how obssessed with each other they are, I mean, really, what the hell.   
Anyway, thanks to @kisahawklin for being such a nice person and cheerleading me when I started this! ily!   
Hope you all enjoy this in some way or another (let me know if you do <3). In the end, it's really about how much Dean loves Sam.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Dean knows that however tormented he still is, there are no excuses for him to keep thinking about what they used to have. Still, despite his efforts, he keeps clinging to it, as some kind of both escapism and penance.

He almost said something on multiple occasions, the urge to confess all of his sins always striking up whenever the situation is still too delicate, when one of them unscrews some important piece of the universe without giving a damn about the consequences and pretend the unbalanced way the world is isn't make them dizzy.

Of course, though, he doesn’t say a thing. First, because it doesn’t matter, not now that his soul is intact and his eyes the right color, now that they got rid of the Mark for good and can take a breather. And second, he’s borderline terrified that Sam will look at him with disgust or disappointment or both, and that’d be it — for him, for them. 

So there hasn't been much between them but awkward silence, save for the moments in which Sam talks idly about cases or keeps urging him to drive faster. He nearly lets out a laugh every single time it happens, nearly tells Sam right then that it’s somehow ironic that they’re going home. 

He almost says something, too, when they finally get there after a particular nasty hunt, but Sam buries his face on his neck and holds him tight the minute they close the door.

“Don’t say anything. Just. Just, please, Dean, I—”

“Yeah,” Dean says, hugging back, “Yeah, Sammy, okay. It’s okay, man, we’re okay.”

They stand there for a bit longer until he complains about being tired and Sam pulls away and turns, rubbing his face with both hands, as if that alone would make him look less pale or mournful.

For the first time in years, Dean follows his brother towards the shower room; it’s natural enough that Sam doesn’t question it when he steps inside the stall after him and washes his hair, scrubs him clean. Sam was mildly hurt, no more than a few cuts and bruises, so most of the blood going down the rail is not his. Dean misses the time when that small victory was enough to put his mind at ease. He watches Sam wash the soap off, does his best not to think too hard about how much this feels like having your favorite food on the roof of your mouth while not being allowed to taste any of it.

Sam’s eyes are heavy lidded, like he’s a second away from falling asleep right here, under the water spray.

“Tired?” Dean asks, softly.

Sam nods, says, “C’mon, it’s your turn. Turn around.”

Dean hesitates for a brief second, but complies. As Sam rubs his shoulders and back, Dean realizes it’s not just the silence that feels awkward. It’s _ them_, the way they once were and the hard work it’ll take to stitch it all back together, how more times than not it feels like they had broken along with the rest of the world. 

He repeats _ relax, relax, relax _ in his head like a mantra, trying to be as thankful and appreciative of the good water pressure and the firmness of Sam’s hands as he usually is. Sam massages his shoulders and his tension eases a bit, but then he’s thinking about all the other things Sam’s hands are capable of doing, so none of it, none of it is helping. 

When, at some point, Sam plants a kiss on his shoulder, Dean holds his breath, hating that some part of him expected a bite, a punch. Anything else.

  


* * *

Dean doesn’t remember what’s like to have a good night of sleep. He hasn’t slept for more than four hours, maybe less, since that one night. He is tired, too tired, but he keeps waking up just to check if Sam’s still breathing, terrified that somehow he did something to him in their sleep.

And there’s that. They sleep on the same bed (because after all this time and all the crap they’ve been through lately, he no longer has the energy to joke about how cuddling is unacceptable; it is acceptable, ‘course it is, Christ, it shouldn’t _ not _ be), but they don’t do anything other than that, they don’t fall back into whatever they were way before, because Sam can tell something is wrong, and Dean has no clue as to how to approach the whole thing without looking desperate and diminishing the importance of it.

Some of the stuff he did escapes his memory somehow, like it had been taken away along with the Mark. Some of it, though, he remembers clearly, like the urgency to hurt and bruise and kill, like how close he’d been to taking Sam out, the things he’d said to him during the sessions when it was just the two of them, the things he said when Cas was there to listen and look confused, how he laughed and yelled at Sam disdainfully, and how Sam tried not to flinch at the sound every time. And the thing is, Sam would forgive him for all the shit he did the minute he asked, because that’s the kind of person Sam is, but Dean can’t put that all behind, can’t let himself get away from this, not yet. Years ago, he meant it when he swore he’d hunt down anything and anyone who were a threat to his family and make them pay if they ever got too close. And, well. Look at how far he’s come. Becoming the very monster he vowed to protect Sam from. 

He takes a deep breath, curls around Sam’s warmth a little bit tighter, and concentrates on Sam’s heartbeat underneath the palm of his hand. It’s a reassuring sound, probably the only thing that can lull him back to sleep ever again. 

* * *

Sam enjoys the closeness with Dean as much as he possibly can, but they still got a long way to go until things feel normal — well, for their standard of normal. Whatever distance persists between them is not any easier for Sam to try and shorten. He’s less of a mess than Dean because he’s had to put himself back together countless times, is used to it in a way nobody would be able to fully understand. But it is hard. He’s just as tired. Sleep only comes when the physicality of Dean holding him feels more real than the nightmares he’s used to. If it wasn’t for Cas keeping him from breaking, he doesn’t dare guess how things would be now.

“I wish there was more I could do,” Castiel laments over the phone, when Sam reaches out. It's been several months since they succeeded, yet they all feel at a loss. “I wish I was able to… Cure all of your pain. I’m sorry.”

Sam breathes out. He's staring at an old copy of the Odyssey on the top shelf, its letters faded out thanks to time. Sam has lost count of how many times he's seen Cas stare at that book, pick it up after long consideration and flip through it, revisiting only his favorite parts.

“It’s fine,” he says.

“It’s anything but fine,” refutes Castiel, like this genuinely upsets him more than he can put into words.

“Cas, it’s okay. Having each other is all that matters," Sam takes a sip of his drink, closes his eyes briefly, "And you _ do _ help me, more than you know.”

There's an exasperated sound and some rustling on the other side of the line.

“Hey," starts Sam, before he can help himself. "Why won’t you come home?”

There's a pause.

“Because, Sam. I don't see how useful it would be for me to be there."

"And who said anything about you needing to be useful for us to want you here?"

Another pause. 

"Wait. Did Dean ever say anything like that?" Sam pinches the bridge of his nose, "Cas, I swear to God, if he ever— I'll kill him."

"I appreciate your concern for my feelings but please, don't. That would be a setback. And I'm not interested in bringing anyone back to life anytime soon."

"Okay," Sam nods. His glass is almost empty and he eyes the bottle in front of him for two seconds before caving and pouring some more. "Just. Just come home, okay?"

"I don’t want to intrude…”

“_Intrude? _ What the hell do you mean?”

“You and Dean have some things to figure out. I can’t get in the way of that.”

Sam clenches his jaw. "That’s— That’s such a stupid excuse to not show up. You know we need you. You know we _ always _ need you.”

Cas sighs, caving in.

“I’ll be there when I can. Soon. In the meantime, don’t just worry about Dean. Take care of yourself as well. Please, Sam.”

Sam relaxes in the chair, head thumping the shelf behind him. 

“I’ll try. I just, I really miss you, y’know.”

“Yes. I know," says Cas, quietly. "I feel the same way.”  
  


* * *

Weeks, a month later maybe, they’re doing the dishes after breakfast side by side, and Dean is particularly antsy, itching for something to hunt so he can blow off some steam, take his mind off the number one stupid idea that’s always clogging his brain. Thing is, there’s _ nothing _out there. Heaven is taking care of whatever multidimensional terror has been unleashed lately, and though monsters are always lurking about, they’re currently hidden in shadow for whatever reason. The past weeks Dean and Sam have been resting, leaving the bunker occasionally to buy supplies or just to see the daylight, tiptoeing around each other with pathetic small talk and the hours of silence that stretch and stretch after it.

“Do you ever,” Dean blurts out quietly, after handing Sam a plate, not finishing the sentence, letting it hang it in the air.

“What?” Sam asks, putting the plate away. He’s wearing one of Dean’s sweaters, and he looks ridiculous with the sleeves rolled-up and his collarbone showing. Dean can’t stop stealing glances, because he’s too much of a coward to take a proper look.

Dean swallows, “No, nevermind,” and hates the way Sam turns to him with a concerned look, utterly oblivious to the truth.

“Right,” Sam says. “You know you can tell me—”

“Nothing to tell, Sammy. Why don’t you go back to that book you were reading earlier while I finish this up?”

Sam huffs, stares at him with his arms crossed, and doesn’t back down when Dean raises an eyebrow and stares right back.

In another life, Dean would look Sam up and down, smirk all mischievous, and they’d make a mess, right there in the kitchen, maybe. Probably. Now Dean goes back to the dishes, ignores the uneasy feeling in his gut that grows with each passing second Sam doesn’t leave him to it. He fucked up, he knows, he fucked them both up really bad. He doesn’t get why Sam stays, after giving him so many reasons not to.

  


* * *

"Did I thank you? For saving me?” Dean manages to say once, after one eventful evening — the monsters are still weirdly off-radar, but Winchesters are good at finding loopholes. — Before Sam answers, he adds, “Knew you could do it.”

Somehow it's stamped on his face he doesn't mean just today, but all the other times Sam's got his back.

“Why are you saying that?" asks Sam, as they walk to the car. The streetlights color his face blue. "What brought this on?”

Sam crawled to him at one point during the hunt and threw himself in front of him at another. Like he doesn’t know Dean’s the one that does all the crawling, all the the you’ll-only-get-to-him-over-my-dead-body’s.

“Nothing.”

“Wow. You _ hate _ it when it’s my turn to take care of you, don’t you?"

“Don’t hate it,” Dean admits with a shrug. “It just feels wrong.”

“Well, it shouldn’t.”

He wants to fight. Tell Sam how wrong he is, how wrong this all is, but Sam’s quick and in a good mood, a playful grin on his face.

“Are having a moment?”

Dean snorts.

“Not anymore, we’re not.”

  


* * *

As soon as they get past the door, Sam spots him. He moves down the stairs slowly, barely blinkling.

“You're here,” he says, quietly. 

Cas is the one who rushes into the hug and Sam holds him as tight as he can, as if they haven't seen each other in a million years. Castiel squeezes his eyes shut and his lips lift in a smile. It's odd, to say the least; the hug goes on and on for longer than normal and neither Castiel or Sam move or seem any closer to stepping away.

Dean clears his throat and they finally break apart. Cas hugs him too, and Dean can't help but roll his eyes a little behind his back. 

Sam mouths, _ dude_, then says, enthusiastic, "Good to see you, Cas."

Castiel puts his hands in his coat's pockets, breathes out.

"It's good to see you too."

* * *

  


They act like everything is back on track and functioning just fine. With Cas present, they talk more than they’ve talked in what feels like a lifetime, and none of it feels forced, which shouldn’t be surprising, but is. And Cas is a good friend enough to pretend he doesn’t understand how they’re acting, a good friend enough to pretend he believes it when they lie through their teeth when he asks if they’re okay, if they need anything.

He doesn’t seem to care too much about how out of balance things still are between, actually, all three of them, but Dean understands why, even if just a little, when he notices the way Cas’ hands linger on Sam’s body after they hug goodbye, the flush on Sam’s face when Cas says, “I’ll call you”, and looks directly at him, up close and personal. It’s a subtle thing but it’s a thing that _ is _ there, and Dean wishes the part of him that it’s bothered for the right reasons would be bigger than the part that is outraged for the wrong ones.

After Cas leaves and they’re alone again, Dean comments that the whole afternoon, Cas has a very weird smile on his face like he’s willing to spill the universe’s secrets if someone asks the right questions and then gets startled when Sam laughs. It drains most of his jealousy away, because it feels like it’s been a million freaking years since Sam’s done that, and another thousand since he was there to hear it, appreciate it. 

“We should probably try and quiz him,” Sam says, turning off the TV and sitting back on the couch, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

“Damn right we should,” Dean says, his knees pressing against Sam’s side. 

Sam smiles, like he’d just remembered he knows how, his dimples deep in his cheeks, and he’s sighing, looking somewhat peaceful, hopeful even, and Dean _ knows_, as the one piece of knowledge that’s rooted deep within himself and he wishes he had never unlearned, that no one is more deserving of being alive than Sam. 

The world feels balanced for a reassuring second.

“Hey, Dean?” Sam says, a few minutes later, his voice quiet. “What would you ask?”

It takes him a moment to answer. 

“Dunno,” Dean says, and decides to be honest about it, “Think I already know everything that matters.”

Sam hums, bites down his lip.

“I think I’d want to know something small, something that wasn’t— I mean, ‘course I’d love if Cas told me more about what dark matter actually is and other stuff like that, but I think it’d be nice to know something equally important that wasn’t as complicated, y’know? I’d ask him for something simple, I guess, know what I mean? I don’t know.”

Dean freezes. _ Something equally important that wasn’t as complicated. Something simple. _

Jesus Christ. Why does Sam have to be like this?

“What would you ask him?” Dean asks.

Sam shrugs, scrunches up his face. “No idea, exactly. Like I said, probably something small. I mean, sort of? Like, maybe what’s up with the color pink, because it’s not supposed to exist but it does. Don’t know, just. I’m cool with anything, as long as he doesn’t mention the number 42 ever again, ‘cause that would probably suck.”

“God, you’re such a fucking nerd,” Dean says, rolling his eyes.

Sam snorts, and turns his head to look at him.

“You love it.”

“‘Course I do, but that’s not the point,” Dean agrees, without hesitation, without breaking eye contact. This was supposed to be awkward, to make his skin feel weird, to make him want to build up his defenses all back up. Instead, Dean feels almost like he isn’t exposed enough.

“Dean?” Sam says, brows furrowed. 

“Shut up,” Dean says, caught.

Sam shuts his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath. Then he turns his head and stares up at the ceiling.

There is a pause, then Sam smiles weakly, and says, “Love you, too. Jerk.” 

Dean decides this is a good moment. Good enough for making dumb decisions, since they’re so close, pressed up against each other, as naturally as breathing, as naturally as it should be. It’s easy to put his hand on Sam’s thigh, easy as it hasn’t been in a long time to make bold offerings by placing soft kisses on Sam’s gracious neck.

“Dean?” Sam wonders, quietly, relaxing as his hand comes up to cup Dean’s head, pulling him closer. “Dean, are you—”

“What?” 

“Nothing, just. I thought we weren’t. _ This_. Anymore. Like, ever.”

“You don’t want to?” Dean asks, pulling away slightly and taking his hand off Sam’s thigh to hold his shoulder instead, his thumb on the concave space between his collarbones, searching for Sam’s pulse by instinct, and his truth by need. 

“No, I do," Sam says, swallowing audibly, and reassuringly squeezing Dean’s knee with his free hand. “I really— I want it. I just thought, I dunno—”

“Man, our communication skills are the worst,” Dean says, and Sam makes a sound that’s really close to another laugh. 

“Yeah, we might wanna, um, we need to work on that after all, don’t you think?”

“Eh. How ‘bout we do that later?” Dean says, kissing him then, and holding back when Sam doesn’t kiss back harder. He’s been telling himself ever since he got back that he can do this, can relearn gentleness, even if he doesn’t deserve it. He keeps his eyes shut, trying his best to focus on Sam’s plush mouth on his, on Sam’s thumbs tracing circles over his cheek and hip, on the soft little sound Sam lets out when he tugs his hair a bit. They kiss slowly, like they’ve never done it before. Sam’s still the pushy kind of kisser Dean remembers, and Dean laughs a little when he huffs an annoyed breath because things don’t always go the way he wants.

“Um, we need to talk if we’re,” Sam mutters, between each press of lips. “We need to, okay, seriously.”

“Later, Sammy, later.”

  


Somehow they end up sprawled on the couch and nowhere near naked. Dean wants to fix that, so his fingers find the button of Sam’s pants. Before he unbuttons it, though, Sam holds his wrist to stop him, his entire body tensing up.

“Don’t,” Sam says, quietly. He’s breathless, his eyes glazed. Dean doesn’t get how someone can be turned on and not want to do something about it, but he stays still, waiting for Sam to either reel him back or tell him off and remind him of all the reasons why this is a bad idea after all. “Sorry, I just. Can we not skip straight to sex? Unless that’s what you want from this and if that’s the case I don’t think—”

“No, hey, no. Sammy, you know that’s not what you are to me. We can do this however you like, it’s fine.”

Sam breathes out, then starts frowning. He won’t look Dean in the eye for whatever reason, though his hands don’t let go of his body. 

“Hey,” says Dean, tipping Sam’s chin up. “Look at me. I’m telling you, it’s okay,” He puts his lips against Sam’s once, twice, “It’s alright, c’mon. C’mere.”

It doesn’t take long for Sam to melt back against the couch and for them to resume making out. Eventually, they’ll have to break apart and excuse themselves if nothing but kissing will happen, but Dean revels in it while it lasts. The inside of Sam’s mouth tastes of nothing but home so it’s easy to not think about anything else, like the fact that he hasn’t really earned any of it to be allowed to get it back.

* * *

Things don’t change. Dean knew they wouldn’t, not that fast. They don’t talk, because of course they don't, and though a few awkward pecks and fleeting touches do occur, nothing else does.

Four days later and they’re desecrating a grave and Sam’s broad smile when they come back to the Bunker is aimed at Cas, who’s staying indefinitely. They share Sam’s room and hug too much so Dean stays away, goes back to lying awake on his bed for hours on end, and says absolutely nothing, because as territorial as he is, he’s far more afraid of what it would mean if they_ both _ left him for good.

Once, he lingers by Sam’s door, not exactly trying to listen in to private conversations but not exactly not paying attention to the sound of their voices, and wondering if it would be such a bad thing if he invited himself in, and what would he be intruding if he opened the door without knocking. Would they be having sex? Just kissing, just talking, maybe a bit of both? Sam’s been a goner for Cas since day one, there’s no way nothing hasn’t happened yet. What kind of secrets do they share? Dean suddenly wants to know everything, even if it’d wreck him.

Yet he won’t ask, so things don’t change. 

* * *

“Do you really think it would work?” Sam asks, a while after they finished watching a movie on Netflix, the laptop put aside at the foot of the bed. His head is on Castiel's lap and Cas is running his fingers through his hair. It was supposed to be a distraction too, but Sam is too anxious to relax completely. 

Everything is weird, again. Everything has been weird for a while, of course, but ever since that visit from Cas, when _ stuff _ happened, he thought the weirdness would subside. But Dean's is not receptive of… Anything, actually. It feels like he's slipping away again and Sam's anxiety levels are their peak with the thought of that. Some part of him, the part where the tiniest bit of confidence and feelings alike live, guesses it could be just plain old jealousy. It's not unprecedented, it's not even a reach, considering it's coming from the guy who was stoked about them getting matching tattoos. Dean likes the aspect belonging, Sam knows; it's ingrained in him too. But it doesn't make this whole situation suck less.

“Of course," says Cas."You’re soul—”

“Don’t say it,” Sam interrupts.

To say Cas seems annoyed is an understatement. He breathes in and out, looks up at the ceiling as if asking for patience then down at Sam's eyes, “You know, your issues would be reduced by a half if you admitted be emotionally repressed and did something about it. Both of you. Me saying the word or not won’t change the fact that your souls _ are _ intrinsically linked.”

Sam glares.

Cas raises an eyebrow. "What? It's true."

Sam knows that, too, but he doesn't want to _ think_, not until morning. He wants to relieve the stress wearing him down, ignore every last bit of turmoil inside his mind. 

He reaches for the back of Castiel's head and pulls him down so their lips graze. "Shut up."

* * *

“Did I do something?” Sam questions, soon enough. Castiel is nowhere to be seen.

“Not that I know of, why?”

Sam places his hand on the hand Dean is using to stir the food. 

“Why won’t you— Why, um, what’s with the cold shoulder?”

Dean doesn't look him in the eye. He frees his hand of Sam's hold and turns around, rummages through cabinets for plates and forks.

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be."

"Dean…"

"Don't. Just, don't."

"I thought—"

"Well, you thought wrong," he turns the oven off, cleans up his hands with a towel. "Conversation over."

  


* * *

There are dozens of books spread out on the floor around Sam when Dean finds him in the library a week later. It feels like a lifetime since he’s put foot in it; now it’s just another room in the bunker he doesn’t dare enter unless he absolutely has to. This library is Sam’s safe-haven, and Dean has vague memories of trying to derail it. There’s no signs of that now, but it doesn’t stop him from curling and uncurling his fists, frozen at the door as the blanks of his jagged memory attempt to fill themselves. He thinks about asking Cas, who’s sitting and reading quietly by Sam’s side, to maybe do something about it, like erase the past months from his mind completely, but then he considers the possibility of Cas and Sam fucking amidst their beloved ancient scriptures or what the fuck ever, and yeah, screw asking Cas for anything. 

Sam looks up from his notes. He’s using his favorite pen, the one he sometimes uses to write in cursive. It looks ridiculously small in his hand. His hair is up in a loose bun, and he’s wearing another one of Dean’s old goddamn sweaters, and Dean wants to make fun of it so he can pretend the sight of it doesn’t affect him, like he doesn’t want to—

“Dean?” 

Dean opens his mouth to speak but thinks better of it, a bright neon sign flashing on his brain. He makes a move to leave Sam to his nerdy stuff, but Sam’s striding after him. 

“Hey,” Sam says, his voice thick. “You gotta talk to me. Please.”

In the middle of the corridor, Dean stops in his tracks. He wants to make his way toward their expensive stash of alcohol; he’s had most of his serious adult conversations drunk anyway. But he turns around, says, as casual as he can, “I’m gonna run some errands and was just, y’know, wondering if you want me to bring you anything? There’s a bit of pie left but I was thinking we could use some cake around here. Whaddya think?”

Sam sighs. “Cut the crap, Dean. I mean, you need to give me _ something_, man, it's been like a week and I gave you your space but we can’t just—”

Dean chuckles humorlessly. “Sammy, I don’t know what you’re talking—”

“It’s alright, you know,” Sam assures him, and maybe that’s worse. “Seriously, we’re good. We don’t have to figure it out at once. I just want us to make it work.”

Dean swallows past the lump in his throat. Trust Sam to always say the unexpected rightful thing, just ‘cause he knows Dean only ever lets his guard down around him. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I get that.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean sighs, feeling more and more disconcerted quicker than the time passes. They’ve had a lot of false starts throughout the years, but this time it seems like Sam is hesitating too, even more so than usual. Like he’s expecting Dean to come up to some sort of solution to whatever it is that isn’t quite settled between them before anything else happens, like Dean needs to prove something first or some shit like that. Dean doesn’t know where to even begin, if that’s the case. He’s got no idea what to even say to his brother, what would make him understand that Dean doesn’t do heart-to-hearts because it sometimes feels like overstepping, because he’s afraid that maybe there’s nothing about him mildly deserving of Sam. Confronting that at any point in time would be terrifying, so he doesn’t; so he won't. He is acutely aware of how he often sounds like a broken record, _ I’d die for you, again, a thousand times over, yeah, this is selfish, Sammy, I’m selfish, so? _ , so he doesn’t say anything, and Sam keeps looking like he’s _ waiting _ for something, and eventually everything falls back out of rhythm. 

He shifts on his feet, scrubs his face. “So, do you want me to bring you anything?”

Sam idly plays with the pen still in hand, his expression softening when he answers, “Just you,” he lifts one shoulder, adds, “Safe.”

Dean nods. “Look, we’ll. We’ll talk when I get back, all right?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, eyes glimmering with newfound hope. Dean wants to wrap his arms around him and literally never let go. Instead he takes a step back, then turns around to leave. “Okay.”

  


* * *

By dinnertime, Dean feels marginally more hopeful about the turnabout of things, even if he’s still dreading the Conversation that has yet to happen. Across the table, the defiant way Sam looks at him would normally piss him off, but right now it sets him on edge. On a fundamental level, he knows what Sam’s gaze translates to, and it has a triple effect on his own desire. He lifts an eyebrow at his brother, drinks the rest of the fruity drink Sam made. Bartender experiences back in college, Sam had confessed out of the blue, and then he got in his head that he could absolutely pull something off his sleeve to accompany their dinner. He’d also said they weren’t celebrating anything, but it’s hard to tell. Sam rarely flirts unless he’s excited about something.

“You just gonna look at me all night?” Dean asks, putting the glass down. Cas doesn’t eat so he stayed right where he was, sat at the library reading dusted books. His absence makes Dean a tiny bit more relaxed, but it isn’t entirely a good thing.

Sam’s lips curl. “I mean. I could.”

“Your boyfriend okay with that?” As soon as the words come out, Dean wishes he had the power to grasp them in the air and throw them away before they reach Sam’s ears. 

As he doesn't, Sam sits up straighter at the question. Dean thinks, _ that's it_, _ it's over. _But Sam just seems confused. Curious. 

“Cas talked to you?”

It’s like Dean’s being struck by lightning. He recovers from the shock quickly, but there’s a random collection of harsh thoughts storming inside his head. He smiles, a bitter ugly thing that spreads across his face. 

“No, Cas didn’t say jack,” he answers. “I’m just not as stupid as you think. In fact, you know what Sam?” He pushes his chair back, the wood scraping the floor in a loud squeaky sound, “I think I’mma head out.”

He stands up but Sam’s right there, blocking the passage and pushing him against the wall with a hand flattened on his chest. His instincts kick into overdrive and he reverses them, their bodies clashing as Sam’s back hits the wall with a hard thud.

“Shit, sorry,” Dean says when he sees the surprise on Sam’s face, his hands hovering over Sam’s body. “I’m sorry, Sammy, did I—” He’s about to step back and leave but Sam acts faster, holds both sides of his face, pulls him in. The press of lips is brief, but enough to disarm him. His outburst cools down to a warmer sort of heat, a constant when it comes to Sam. He keeps his hands on Sam’s hips, where it’s safe, and stops himself from hiding his face on Sam’s neck. Goddammit, he needs to get himself together.

“Sorry, ” Dean says, biting back his pride, baring himself out for Sam to see. He barely breathes as Sam’s face morphs into at least a dozen different emotions before it settles on something resembling kindness, forgiveness. Dean grits his teeth, tries to accept it. 

“‘S okay,” says Sam, his voice light. “I’m fine. And you’re not leaving. You promised we would talk.” 

“Talk about what?”

“What do you think?” Sam retorts. “You, me. Cas.”

“What, you’re gonna say you’re into threesomes now?”

Sam huffs a breath. His hand is warm on the back of Dean’s neck. “Don’t be a jerk.”

“Well, I wouldn’t need to be one if you had told me you were fucking Cas. Jesus, Sam, when the hell did that happen?”

“Uh, a while ago. I thought you knew,” Sam admits, easily. He tucks his hair behind his ear, and for all intents and purposes, looks almost shy, “And it isn’t just... Fucking. I love him. So.”

“So?” Dean slightly pulls away, “So what, you want me to be your backup boyfriend? Is that it?”

“My backup— No! What the fuck, Dean, it’s not like this is easy for me either, okay? I know I’m a. A fuck-up and a freak and you’re probably thinking I’m a greedy bastard too but I. I’m not gonna give either of you up. I can’t.”

“What does that even mean?!”

“It means,” Sam swallows, lowered gaze flicking back up, “that I really want this but not at the cost of anything else. And I know it’s nuts and I know how it must sound but I think… I think we can really make it work, if we’re honest with each other. Which is why I'm— _ We _ are talking about this, as awkward as it is. I want this, and Cas does too, and I think— I’m just asking you to consider it, okay?”

It’s perfectly clear that Sam thought about this at length. Weighed the pros and cons, considered every possible outcome. Must have talked this through with Cas for sure. Must have been convinced by Cas to speak out about what he wants, since he rarely ever does.

Some part of Dean wonders if he should’ve set this whole trainwreck back in motion, but then, he’s gotta own up to his shit, doesn’t he? He can’t really regret wanting Sam like this, Sam and his brain and his ridiculous collarbones and his laughter and his stupid big hands. If not now, Dean would’ve asked for them back like this eventually, bodies pressed together and all the overtones in the words they exchange. It’s full of choice, he thinks, but rearing back to each other always felt inevitable. And honestly, he prefers it to be sooner rather than later. No matter the conditions.

Sam responds to the soft kiss planted on his lips, but still readies himself for an ultimatum. Dean sighs; all these years and Sam still hasn’t realized there isn’t a thing Dean wouldn’t do to just have him. 

“You’re asking a lot from me, man,” Dean says, because the idea of _ sharing _ makes his insides churn. But what else can he do? Sam went after him, purged him from the oldest sickness there is. And no matter what, Cas is the one who was there, making sure it all worked out, holding Dean down during the healing sessions and comforting Sam afterwards. What’s one more fucked up thing in this family of theirs anyway? “But what the hell, right?”

Sam furrows his brow. 

“You do know I’m not leaving, no matter what you say?”

Dean nods. He knows. He doesn't exactly get why, but he knows.

“Yeah, but. I don't know, I'm so tired, man. I know you are too. And I'm just sick of waiting for the right moment. I mean, I was a fucking _ demon _, for Christ’s sake. So I just keep thinking, what needs to happen next for me to, you know. Admit that, well, that I always want this, us, and that that won't change, ever. So yeah, I guess… As long as we're together, I don’t give a shit about anything else," he takes a deep breath, looks down at his feet, “Just. Just tell me something. The reason why we haven’t, you know. Is it because. I mean,” he clears his throat, “would you prefer if Cas was around? Like, would it make you feel… Safer, somehow? I don’t mean to be an asshole alright, and I promise I won’t hold it against you if that’s the case because, honestly, I get it, but you. You gotta tell me, Sammy.”

Sam swallows, looks stunned. 

“Dean. You don’t have to do this,” he says, his voice thin, so quiet, hopeful. And there’s the answer.

“Yeah. I kinda do.” There’s a pause. “C’mon. Let’s finish dinner and keep flirting.”

Later, when Sam drags him by the hand towards his bedroom, part of Dean dreads the sight of Cas waiting for them, but if he’s being honest with himself, when Cas makes room for him on the bed and grins, it’s a relief.

“I knew you would eventually agree,” says Castiel, and he sounds like such a smug asshole. “Did you need to seduce him, Sam?” he asks.

Dean raises his eyebrows and Sam snorts. “No.”

“Eh, well…” Dean says, shrugging, the corner of his eyes crinkling. 

Sam hits him with a pillow. “Oh my god. Fuck off.”

Dean laughs a little, a real laugh though it sounds a bit strained. “So what now?”

He still feels like maybe he shouldn’t be here, but a tiny spark of hope makes him think, why not. Sam wants him here, doesn’t he? And Cas isn’t opposed to the idea. _ Why not _.

“Now we sleep,” answers Cas. 

And so they do, curled tight around Sam. It feels like old tradition.

* * *

  
  
  


Brewing the coffee is a task left to Castiel. As he finishes preparing breakfast, there's a silence awkward enough to make Dean, who's always more than happy to not talk at all, uncomfortable. 

Sam decides it's good a time as any to kiss Cas on the cheek, then Cas turns his face to press a kiss full on his mouth.

Dean's eyes go wide. He agreed to his, he reminds himself. Still, _ what the fuck_?

Sam murmurs something on Cas' ear then pushes off the sink, eyebrow raised in question.

“What?” 

Sam doesn't answer, feigns ignorance and stares and stares and stares. Dean grabs a mug by Sam's side and this close, he notices Sam's pupils are huge, but all the different colors of his eyes still glimmer, too pretty and hypnotizing. 

Dean puts the mug down.

All right. He's not _ that _ dense.

Finding their way back to the bedroom is easy. 

Against the door, Dean nips at the spot under Sam’s ear, leaves a soft kiss on his shoulder in a less noble imitation of the one he received months prior, lifts Sam’s shirt and works his way down. Sam pulls him back up before he can get on his knees, undresses him of his top layers before going after his own. His tongue is persistent against Dean’s, his skin smooth under Dean’s palm. Stumbling towards the bed, they grunt when the zippers don’t seem eager to cooperate. 

“Ugh, c’mon, already,” Dean complains.

Sam pushes him and he goes sprawling on the mattress. He gets up on his elbows to watch Sam get rid of his pants, and for some reason he’s caught unprepared when Sam’s back to kissing, slow, deep. He brushes Sam’s hair out of his face with one hand, grabs his ass with the other.

It takes less finesse than he’d like and there is a twinge in his knee, but Dean flips them over.

Sam gasps.

“I can’t believe you were thinking I didn’t want this, _ you,_” he says, amused. “It’s like you don’t know me.”

Dean holds himself up with his hands flattened on either side of Sam’s head, “I’ll figure something out, relearn you all over again. How does that sound?”

“Sappy,” Sam says, but he’s leaning for another kiss.

He blindly reaches for the bedside drawer and unceremoniously drops lube and a bunch of condoms on the bed. 

“You couldn’t wait five minutes?” says Cas from the door, suddenly, making Dean freeze in place. 

Sam chuckles, then he says, softly, “Hey, you. C’mere.”

As the sounds of Castiel’s steps approach the bed, Dean moves his upper body away from Sam. 

“Dean?” asks Sam, frowning. ”You okay?”

“Um, yeah. Fine.”

Cas is by the bed now, his posture more relaxed than Dean’s ever seen.

“I can leave,” Castiel offers.

“No,” Dean exclaims. He clears his throat, then adds, “No, stay.”

At that, Cas takes off his top layers, unceremoniously. Sam seizes him up and down, appreciative, his hand lightly squeezing Dean's bicep. Dean doesn't look for too long; enough to get an assessment of everything and forget for a hot second about how the idea of sharing Sam seemed like the worst thing ever. (It's not like he's one-hundred percent fine with it, obviously. It's a work in progress; there will be the slamming of doors and late night bickering, but right now this new arrangement doesn't look so bad_._)

Castiel is very practical: he's the one who rips the condom wrapper open and hands it over, for one, and helps Sam out of his remaining clothes. Then he lies by Sam's side leaning on his elbow, not just watching but waiting too.

Dean takes a deep breath. 

Once he is inside, Sam smiles playfully. He automatically smiles back, and thrusts to see Sam’s smug façade melt under his touch. Sam either doesn’t know or really just refuses to acknowledge how hot he is, but sometimes, honestly, sometimes it’s hard to even believe he’s real, especially when he’s like this. Smiling, showing off those stupid deep dimples, and tanned again, looking healthy. _ Alive_. And not just on the physical sense. Dean watches him unfold under him. His eyes half lidded, breath coming out short from his slightly parted mouth. Sweat gathers near his hairline, on his chest. He moans and it’s raw, truthful. He looks obscene. 

He fucks into him slow, though the gentle strips away at each thrust, testing the waters. First times remain being first times, even when they've happened dozens of times before. 

“Yeah?” Dean asks, holding onto Sam's hips. “That feel good?”

“Yeah— _ oh _— I— I missed this.”

“What, getting laid?” 

Sam shakes his head, tries to catch his breath. “Having you, close. Like this.”

He can barely contain the soft sound that erupts from his throat at that.

“Me too,” he kisses Sam’s mouth to stifle another moan. “God, you don’t even know,” he peppers kisses on the side of Sam’s jaw, sucks and nips lightly on his neck.

He keeps on going, following Sam’s needy rhythm while Cas whispers sweet-nothings on Sam’s ear.

At one point, Cas runs his fingers through Dean's hair for no reason they can guess yet and that causes Sam to swear, loud, as Dean shivers. 

“Fuck, wait. Wait, wait, wait.”

Dean slows down.

“I want to try something,” says Sam.

He lightly pushes Dean away, gets on his knees and turns his back to him. He asks Castiel to lay in front of him, then reaches back so everyone gets the idea.

“Ah, holy shit," mutters Dean. "_Okay.” _

It takes some maneuvering but they manage it to pull it off. Cas pushes his hips forward and up, the final piece of the puzzle. In the middle, Sam is reduced to a mumbling, moaning mess, so it's good, though all of their muscles will probably be really sore afterwards.

“Tell me how much you like this,” Dean nags, though his breath is no better than anyone else's.

"Yeah," is all Sam can say, over and over, sucking in air through his mouth as much as he can muster in between his words. Besides the sounds he makes, there's the wet slide of their movements, Dean into Sam and Sam into Cas. Beyond that, there's the touch of Sam's skilled hand on Cas, stroking, and the warm breath from Dean on Sam's skin. 

“Remember you’re mine first,” Dean says, barely above a whisper, just as the momentum builds. Sam is so close he can feel it in his own bones.

“Fuck," Sam grunts.

“Sam, please,” Cas whimpers, his neck and face flushed. “Kiss me.”

Ever so flexible, Sam bends down and does, the three of them never stopping their pace.

Like domino, they each climax. Sam lays down on top of Cas and Dean rests his head between his shoulder blades as they all try to catch their breaths. Then he pulls out and throws himself at the free space on the mattress.

Cas runs his hand through Sam’s hair, the look on his face fond in a way reserved only for Sam.

“How do you feel?” he asks, when they have stopped heaving.

“Great,” Sam smiles, dopey, his chin digging in Castiel's stomach. “You?”

“The same. Like everything is in the right place,” he pauses, turns his head in Dean’s direction, “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“How are you feeling?”

“I don’t know, man, like I just had some crazy awesome sex,” he says. He breathes out, turns on his side. “Aw, we’re gonna need a bigger bed if we wanna keep this going.”

“Yeah, uh, we're already working on it.”

Dean raises an eyebrow, a sly grin appearing on his face. “You pervs.”

Sam snorts and sighs, his grin growing wider by the second. His gaze shifts from Cas to Dean, back and forth, like he can see right through, way past the skin and muscles and bone, like whatever he finds doesn’t scare him in the slightest, like he wants it all, will take it, never give it back. As if he hasn’t done that before. As if he’s the one who’s lucky. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
